


A smile of melted red

by shrift



Category: DCU - Comicverse, Green Arrow
Genre: Alternate Universe, Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-10
Updated: 2004-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:22:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shrift/pseuds/shrift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Society's limitations don't mean anything when you run around in tights every night fighting crime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A smile of melted red

**Author's Note:**

> This does not fit into canon. No canon here. Don't even bother looking for it.
> 
> Title from "Gargoyle" by Carl Sandburg.

Hate crimes, Ollie says. You're going undercover, Ollie says. Why, it's practically a family tradition, Ollie says. Because Ollie won't tolerate discrimination in Star City, not while he lives and breathes, but he already did his time in the undercover gig, so it's Speedy's turn now.

Right. Which is exactly why he squeezes Roy into a T-shirt and pair of jeans that Roy outgrew three _years_ ago, slaps him heartily on the shoulder, and sends him into a gay bar with a fake I.D. that only works because using a bow every day seems to add years like a camera adds pounds, in a way that makes arm-wrestling contests a lot more fun than they used to be.

Either that, or the bouncer just likes the way Roy looks.

He pays the cover and steps inside, and the bass thumps in his sternum so hard that, for a moment, he's breathless. Strobe lights flash over his eyes and leave an after burn of bright purple. A body bumps into him from behind, so Roy moves forward because it's the only place to go.

Forward to the bar. Roy's only been able to _drive_ legally for a couple of months, but he's supposed to blend in, right?

Fuck it, Roy doesn't know what Ollie's thinking, sending him in here like this. He's just here to catch the bad guys, and they're not the cops, so a drink isn't out of line.

And maybe he's a little nervous.

Guys are everywhere. By themselves at the bar and looking lost. Holding hands. Kissing, some slow and some fast. Dancing. Some of them look like they're fucking with their clothes on out there.

Roy orders a drink and nearly inhales it through his nose when he thinks of Ollie doing this, shaking his ass out there on the dance floor, maybe picking somebody up and hoping the bashers attack on the way home, because Roy just can't imagine Ollie doing that. Having sex. With a guy.

It... no. Just no.

Roy, though, he's thought about it. A lot. Because he likes thinking about sex, and society's limitations don't mean anything when you run around in tights every night fighting crime. He's done some stuff with girls _and_ boys. And it's funny, because he's been thinking that girls are easier. Dates, compliments, gazing into their eyes -- it gets him right where he wants to be. Girls are soft and they smell good, and they sure as hell feel good. But it isn't a girl that walks up to him after twenty minutes, slides two fingers behind the button snap of his jeans, and says, "I wanna suck you off so bad."

The drink is sweet on Roy's tongue, and his throat is so dry that it clicks when he swallows before saying, "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Guy's taller than Roy is. Lean. Messy dark hair, and almost pretty when the red strobe light slides across his face. Roy can't see his eyes in here, but he's gonna pretend that they're blue.

There are a million reasons why he shouldn't do this. Maybe a million and a half. But Roy doesn't really care right this minute. He smiles at the guy, pushes away from the bar, and says, "Lead the way."

The guy grins and tugs at Roy's jeans, and Roy feels his heart beat out of rhythm with the bass still pounding in his sternum. He grabs the guy's shoulder so they don't get separated in the push of bodies on the dance floor. They break through the knot of people and stumble forward, the air suddenly cooler on the back of his neck. And then they move into another room, a room that's even darker and filled with guys having sex.

He wants to gawk. He wants to _watch_ , but his sense of cool tells him to keep moving, keep moving with the guy who wants to suck on his dick, because that's _better_ than watching, and just _move_. The guy, Roy's guy, backs him against an unoccupied stretch of wall and slides his hand up Roy's shirt, his palm hot on Roy's belly. Two guys are fucking next to him, about a foot away.

"You done this before, Red?" the guy asks.

Roy tilts his head back and says, "Yeah."

"Right," the guy tells him like he knows better. And Roy tries not to blush, because everybody lies about this, right? Roy looks older than he is, so he could have done stuff with a guy -- _has_ had sex with a couple of girls, even -- but his nights are kind of _busy_ , and that isn't his fault. He feels his skin going hot anyway, and he wants to punch a big hole in something, maybe with one of Ollie's trick arrow bombs. Or at least he does until the guy leans in closer and says, "Mmm," like he likes the heat rising under Roy's skin, and drops to his knees.

The guy pops the button on Roy's jeans and unzips him, and Roy's head goes back, hits the wall with a thunk, but nobody cares. He puts his hand on Roy's stomach again, and it feels like there'll be a mark there tomorrow. The guy tugs at Roy's jeans. They're so tight he has to help get them down, and he doesn't realize that he's moving with the beat of the music until the guy says, "Jesus." He puts his hand around Roy's cock. Strokes up once. Says, "Fuck, you're red all over," and sucks the head of Roy's cock into his mouth.

For a moment, Roy can't breathe. His pulse pounds in his throat and his hands twist around nothingness. He's pretty much been half-hard since he walked in the door of this bar, and the slick, wet mouth on his dick feels better than... better than _fighting_. The guy licks and sucks, and he's noisy, but everybody's being noisy in here.

The air is thick with sound, sticky with alcohol, sweat, and the bitter funk of sex. He's going to reek of all this when he leaves, but Ollie can't bellow at him when they meet up later, can't lecture, because he's the reason why Roy is in here at all. Roy slides his fingers through the guy's dark hair, just the one hand, because he doesn't want to do anything to make this to stop. Roy clenches his other hand against his thigh and turns his head.

Blond guy getting fucked a foot away has his eyes open. He winks, and then a few heart beats later, his grin collapses into a grimace, and he shoots against the wall, his mouth open and red.

Some day, Roy thinks, and then his guy slides his hand from Roy's stomach down to his balls, and Roy can't think about anything else but this and the tight ring of the guy's lips as he sucks. Sweat tickles down his sides and the middle of his back, and the wall feels warm and a little rough against his ass. His legs are trapped in his jeans; he wants to _fuck_ , but he can't, so he moans instead. Roy moans _a lot_ , and his guy must like it, because he makes a noise, too, and the vibration drives Roy a little crazy.

" _Oh_ \--" Roy gasps. He lifts up on his toes and thrusts with his hips, and even though the movement is shallow, it's enough to get him off. Roy tugs at the guy's hair, and he pulls off Roy's cock with an obscene slurp that just _does_ it for him, so much that the guy doesn't even finish stroking up once before Roy comes.

He's breathing hard and his hands shake when the guy finally stands up and presses against Roy's hip. Roy just does it, doesn't stop to doubt or think, or worry. Roy just unzips the guy and pulls out his cock. Guy's hard, cut and wet at the head, and Roy can't help but like that, can't help but _love_ being a turn-on to somebody else like this.

"Yeah, do it, Red. Just like that, fuck," the guy says, his breath warm and humid on Roy's ear. He doesn't sound anything like... anybody Roy knows. Roy jerks him harder, does some things he likes to do on himself. And if he's vain about his hands, he knows he has a right to be, because he's an archer, and he's _good_ at it. And maybe he's good at this, too. The guy seems to think so, because he grabs at Roy's shirt, drops his face in the crook of Roy's neck, and comes in a couple of minutes.

Roy watches men fucking against the opposite wall while the guy makes a high noise and mouths at Roy's neck. The guy sucks at Roy's throat a little harder, so Roy moves into it. As he turns, he sees more than one set of eyes gleaming at him in the darkness.

Roy tilts his head a little more, and decides that he likes it.

* * *

The bar's bathroom is long and narrow, and almost as funky as the back room. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, and there are guys fucking in the stalls. Probably doing something else, too, something with pills and needles, but as long as Roy doesn't see it, he doesn't have to do anything about it.

There aren't any paper towels left in any of the dispensers, so Roy takes off his shirt and uses it to wipe himself down. He leans against the counter and rinses his shirt under the tap. In the mirror, Roy's reflection is speckled from soap and age. He doesn't look any different. Ollie probably won't be able to tell.

Roy squeezes as much water from his shirt as he can, and then throws it over his shoulder. It lands with a wet slap against his skin. He walks out of the bathroom, and has to untangle himself from interested hands a couple of times on his way to the rear exit. It opens into a dark alley just like Ollie said it would, and Roy figures this is his best bet for attracting a little violent attention.

The heavy door slams shut behind him, and Roy takes a little walk. Puts a little swing in his hips. He actually _has_ to, because his jeans really are that tight, not to mention wet, and things are starting to chafe. He has no doubt that Ollie's watching from the rooftops, and laughing his ass off.

The back of his neck prickles. Roy keeps walking even though he's picking up movement in his peripheral vision, big shapes, glint of moonlight on metal. These guys are picking on the wrong queer tonight, and they don't even know it. Roy suppresses a fierce grin, and turns into a dead end.

"You lost, little faggot?"

Roy spins on his heel toward the voice and pretends to be scared. Maybe next time he sees Gar, he'll ask him for acting tips. "Hey, uh," Roy says, slurring his words a little, "think I took a wrong turn."

"Fucking homos," another voice says, and they start coming forward. There's six at least, almost all of them built like a high school football coach's wet dream. One slaps a wood baseball bat in his palm.

Roy is going to take great pleasure kicking their asses into next Tuesday. He raises his hands as they advance, does an artful stumble over some garbage as he backs away. "Hey, no, I --"

"Shut your fucking mouth, fag!" the closest guy says. He looks like a skinhead, blond hair shaved close to his scalp and a neck almost the same width as his head. The guy raises the baseball bat over his head like he thinks he's going to use Roy for batting practice, and just as the bat begins the downward arc, there's a piercing whistle overhead.

Ollie stands at the edge of the roof overlooking the alley, leaning his elbow on his knee. "Boys, didn't your mothers ever tell you that if you can't say anything _nice_ \--"

"Who the fuck are you?" baseball-bat-guy demands.

"Language," Ollie warns.

"Fuck you!"

Ollie grins. "Wrong answer."

Ollie fires a trick boxing glove arrow and leaps, tossing Roy's bow and quiver at him as he flies to the ground. Roy snatches them out of the air easily, slinging the quiver over one shoulder, dropping to one knee, and going to work. It's six to two, and the odds aren't very sporting, because Ollie and Roy drop the guys in a matter of seconds. He was kind of hoping they'd resist a little more.

"Have you learned an important lesson, Speedy?" Ollie's standing next to him and looking satisfied like he always does after performing his civic duty.

For a minute, Roy's mind blanks. His blood is singing with sex and adrenaline, his bow in his hands and the night air cool on his bare skin. "Uh, about tolerance?"

"That's right!" Ollie says. "In the Declaration of Independence, you punks, it says that 'All men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.'" Ollie kicks one of the bashers in the spine. "But if your happiness comes from hurting innocent kids, that's where _I_ come in!"

Ollie guards the bashers, glaring at them fiercely, while Roy goes in hunt of a working telephone to call the Star City Police Department. It isn't until later, when they're on the roof watching the bashers get cuffed and led away, that Ollie finally asks, "Say, what happened to your shirt?"

Roy lies smoothly. "Guy tripped and spilled a drink on me."

"Huh," Ollie says. "I would've guessed a wet T-shirt contest."


End file.
